


After Me

by AJSwag



Category: How to Train Your Dragon (2010), Rise of the Guardians (2012)
Genre: AU, Gen, hit-man!Jack, mafia!au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-14
Updated: 2014-02-14
Packaged: 2018-01-12 09:52:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1184831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AJSwag/pseuds/AJSwag
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When cornered by professional hit-man Jack Frost, Henry "Hiccup" Haddock III knows there's no way out. He just has one question.</p>
            </blockquote>





	After Me

**Author's Note:**

> Just a little drabble I've had in my folders for months. Most likely won't be continued, but who knows! Please leave feedback, I really appreciate it! This is my first time posting my own work so there's your quality warning.  
> Disclaimer: I own nothing other than the 'plot' and the specific wording.

His eyes were the first thing that he noticed. Shuttered and cold, slate grey that reflected rather than showed, giving away nothing but a dull sense of unease, they peered at him from a hollow, pale face. He was dressed properly, as one such as him should be, in black suit and tie. His perfectly tailored suit left no secret to the physique underneath, one that was nimble but muscular – not stocky as one might expect. He was clearly agile, and strong – much stronger than the boy. In one of his hands he carried a long, wooden cane that seemed far too out of place to be held by such a lithe, young individual. With one perfectly shaped white eyebrow arched in an elegant fashion, the young man conveyed just how comical he found the boy in front of him to be, without even consenting to laugh. 

“So… You’re the ‘great’ Henry “Hiccup” Haddock. I’ll admit, I’m disappointed. But honestly, what was I expecting from the ‘Hiccup’?” He loosed a laugh barely even recognizable as such; laughter defined itself as being happy, a joyous thing. Not something that chilled the room temperature by a clearly recognizable amount, or that raised gooseflesh, and certainly it was not something that set the spine alight with pins and needles.

Refusing to take the bait so calculated and carefully flung in his face, the boy, the heir to the family Haddock who’d managed to do nothing his entire life but shame his family, instead sighed, a resigned air about him. He’d come to terms long ago with the attempted hits – though usually he had his bodyguards (fat lot of help they were) so he’d made it at least this far - 17. And he knew he’d probably die this way sooner or later. It wasn’t as if his death would really be so much of a boon on the family, though (he would bet their entire family fortune – something he had almost done before – on the fact that there’d be parties). So in the end all he could manage when this talented young hit-man, hardly older than himself but whose hands were undoubtedly dyed with copious amounts of red from his ‘work’, separated and confronted him was a rather submissive sigh, followed by the smallest, barest of smirks, tinted with a fatalistically wry humor. “You don’t have to tell me – that’s my life’s story summed up into what - two, three sentences?” He leaned back against the wall situated behind him – well would you look at that, he was cornered, how nice – and crossed his arms. This situation for him was nothing new and nothing to fret overly much about. “I just have one question.”

The other bleached brow joined its companion, surprise overtaking the face, flashing briefly through those icy eyes. This guy was nothing like anything he’d ever dealt with before, so nonchalant and uncaring about his clearly impending death. His calm acquiescence left the hit-man – Frost – doubting himself for the briefest of moments. Was there a trap? An ambush? But… No. He was good at his job, exceptionally good. He knew, for certain, that they were alone and wouldn’t be disturbed – he had a job to do, and he didn’t fuck up. His spindly fingers tapped against the grip of his cane – which sheathed his weapon – in thought. It wouldn’t hurt anything… He nodded, giving a silent go ahead to voice this oh-so-important question.

“Who sent you? The DunBroches?” This was the important question, the only thing that varied from attempt to attempt, and the one thing he had to know. There were many warring families here, his being one of the three most prominent ones, and assassinations were reported near constantly, accusations and blame thrown from family to family. “The Coronas, perhaps?” He wouldn’t be surprised – they were a superficially nice family, but wrong them, as his father had, and… Well, they’d come the closest out of all of them; he lost the lower half of his left leg from their last attempt. Even still, this was all too perfect, too set up, and he had a sinking feeling the answer was what was playing on his mind, the thought taunting him as it had for years. 

“Or was it my Father?”


End file.
